


"Normal" Is Just A Distribution

by sorrens



Series: Love Thy Self as You Do Unto Others [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Family Feels, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Protective Crowley, and doesn't know a thing about cars, crowley is soft, seriously his dad is trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 20:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: When a boy takes interest in the Bentley, Crowley takes him under his wing.The demon soon discovers, despite a century behind the wheel, he actually knows nothing about cars.





	"Normal" Is Just A Distribution

**Author's Note:**

> Mild TW for disrespectful family interactions. Basically, his dad hasn't bothered to understand his condition and is trying to encourage him to be "normal."

“There’s someone drawing my car.” Crowley observed, leaning against the bookshop window. Aziraphale barely looked up from his book.

“Well, it is quite lovely dear. And at the speeds you drive at one can only admire it when it’s stationary.”

The demon’s lip quirked at the comment.

“The kid’s dressed like me.” He laughed, noticing the dark sunglasses perched on the boy’s nose. Truth was, between his bright blue jeans, Avengers t-shirt and maroon school bag, the teenager was about as close to “dressing like Crowley” as Aziraphale with his tartan and waistcoats.

The angel moved over to the window and peered out.

The boy was knelt on the pavement, parting the stream of pedestrians as he shaded the tyres of his sketch.

“You don’t have a trademark on wearing sunglasses.” Aziraphale reminded him. “Oh, he’s actually quite good.” The sketchbook had shifted slightly on the boy’s knee so that his observers could make out the drawing.

But, as if sensing he had an audience, the boy turned around and paled slightly. In a flash, he had melted in to the crowd and was gone.

“What a shame he didn’t get to finish.” Aziraphale lamented. “You scared him off.”

Crowley snorted.

“I did not. Besides, he should’ve just taken a picture, it’d last longer.”

⁂

Ayden had, in fact, taken several pictures of the 1926 Bentley over the course of the last few weeks. He placed the USB on the kitchen table where his father was reading the paper. The man didn’t acknowledge him, so Ayden hovered awkwardly, trying to find the right words to get his dad’s attention. When he was younger, he’d barrel in to the room shrieking “Dad!” and his father would pinch his nose and glare at him. After a few incidents, he’d gotten a talking to about how “adults” communicated: they used an inside voice, they didn’t interrupt someone if they were busy, they didn’t keep persisting with questions after they were done with the conversation. Which was all very well, but his dad had never said how he was supposed to do all that. What was way to announce his presence? Should he cough (he wasn’t sick)? Or say “hello” (he was certain his dad was aware he was standing there)? Or just launch in to what he was going to ask (Dad, can you please print off these photos to stick on my wall?)? No, Ayden was sure that his dad would have words to him about abruptness if he chose the latter. He stood frozen to the spot, a nervous energy coursing through him as he weighed up his options. _Why was it so complicated?_

“You need to learn to use your words.” His father finally lowered the paper, frustration plain on his face. “That’s how adults communicate.”

_Adults._ Mr Sutton wasn’t concerned about his fourteen year old son modelling the behaviour of someone in their twenties so much as he wanted Ayden to act _normal_. The one therapy session they’d been to as a family (before his father had blustered out muttering about wasted money and time), you can’t use the word “normal” so flippantly, like it was an actual thing.

“Everyone is different.” The lady had explained. “There’s no value in holding someone to a universal normalcy, because it just doesn’t exist. Normal is defined by the individual.” She leaned forward in her seat, addressing Ayden (who’d spent the entire session staring at the carpet and twisting his hands.)

“If you’re happy and you’re not hurting anyone, normal can be whatever you want.”

Though they’d left the session early, Mr Sutton somewhat redder in the face than when they’d arrived, his mum had taken to heart what the therapist had said and banned the use of the word “normal” in their family. This left Mr Sutton to find a synonym for one of his favourite words that wouldn’t cause his wife to smack him over the head with her tea towel if she overheard.

“Adults” seemed to do the trick.

His father rolled his eyes as the teen explained he needed access to the computer to print off some photos.

“More cars?” He sighed and went to get up.

“Yes,” Ayden ran both hands through his hair as he spoke. “Not just any car in fact, I was walking back from school the other day and I came across a 1926 Bentley—“

The boy kept talking in a pressured tone as he trailed behind his dad to the computer room.

“Look, Ayden.” He sat down in the desk chair heavily. “I’ll print them off, okay? I just don’t need to hear anymore about your cars today.”

“Well, they’re not my cars, yet.” He replied tentatively. “But soon—”

“Ayden,”

The boy nodded meekly and left the office, closing the door behind him.

⁂

A few days later, the boy returned and pulled out the unfinished sketch.

Crowley who’d dropped all pretence of actually visiting his flat since the apoca-lapse was asleep on the couch when Aziraphale prodded his shoulder.

“Whhaaaa?” He was not about to make the effort to open his eyes for just anything, last time he’d been woken up the angel had wanted to show him he found a typo in his crossword puzzle.

“Dear, your car.”

He sat bolt upright.

“What’s happened to my car?”

Aziraphale was standing at the window, holding a cup of tea.

“The boy’s back,” he said fondly.

Muttering darkly Crowley contemplated going back to sleep before a thought occurred to him.

“He’s not putting his grubby little hands on it, is he? I mean, I can get rid of the marks but I’ll always know they were there.”

Aziraphale fought back a snicker at this parallel.

“I’ll go give him a piece of my mind.” The demon readjusted his sunglasses and slouched menacingly out the front door before Aziraphale could stop him.

“Oi, sunglasses boy!” He called. The boy looked up in fright. He was wearing a different pair of sunglasses today but this pair, too, were excellent at blocking out the light. And hiding the fear in his eyes as a washed up rock star sauntered over.

“No touchy,” he glowered.

Ayden couldn’t help but smile and this made the man look oddly put out.

“Who’re you calling sunglasses boy, sunglasses boy?” He retorted.

The man’s expression was unreadable behind the glasses.

“Touche,”

Crowley liked kids and he found fondness quickly growing towards the boy and his sketchbook. He had spunk and good taste in cars.

“Can I ask you a few questions about the car?” He asked eagerly, flipping over a page and holding pencil poised.

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“Is that your shop? Can we go in? Sorry, the noise is just a bit much for me.”

“Uh yeah, it’s sort of my shop. No problem kid.”

As they entered A Z Fell and Co the teenager wondered out loud.

“You don’t look like you own a bookshop.”

“I’m just the & Co.” Said the man offhandedly “I don’t own the place. I’m the company.”

Aziraphale had sequestered himself out in the back room and was peering around the corner to watch the exchange.

Crowley glared at him, willing him to come forward and use some angelic charm to help the conversation along. The smug smile on the man’s face, however, suggested that he was in this one alone. Bastard.

“So,” Crowley sprawled on one of the couches and gestured for the boy to have a seat. “What do you want to know… what was your name?”

“Ayden,” the boy smile and began to rattle off a list of question ranging from the fuel consumption (Crowley didn’t know, he’d never bought fuel), to the rarity of the car (Last one in Britain that he knew of, Crowley had beamed), to the handling and the top speed (Crowley’s top speed was whatever speed he wanted to get to, he wasn’t sure how high to odometer got to, he hazarded a guess).

“Well,” the boy finished scribbling notes. “I have to say that… you don’t know anything about your car.”

Crowley, expecting some heaping praise for keeping his Bentley in such mint condition all these decades, spluttered.

The boy then proceeded to correct Crowley’s guesses to each and every question, rattling off top speed to the nearest kilometre in both wet and dry conditions and informing him that the Earl of Dorkingshire, in fact, also possessed a 1926 Bentley and it was being shown at a car show in the south in two weekends time.

Once he’d recovered from the shock of being an immortal completely owned, for lack of a better word, by a teenager who can’t even drive yet, Crowley couldn’t help but crack a wide smile.

“Bravo,” he nodded, and it lacked his usual bite. “That is… _really_ impressive.”

The boy beamed.

“You really think so?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I? Kid, _sorry,_ Ayden you’re got an insane amount going on in that brain of yours.”

Ayden’s smile faltered slightly.

“My dad doesn’t like it.” He sniffed and began twisting his hands. “He says that it’s annoying and that adults don’t care about that stuff.”

“Well,” Crowley frowned. “I definitely care about that stuff. And last I checked I was an adult. Besides, what gives him the right to say that something that brings you joy is annoying? Screw that!”

Ayden couldn’t quite look at the man.

“He wants me to be normal.”

Crowley heard the pain and confusion behind those words and it tore at his heartstrings.

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table between them

“Normal is lame. Hey, d’you want to take it for a spin?”

Behind the dark glasses, Crowley could see the teen’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Really? REALLY?” It was like Christmas and Easter and all his birthdays rolled in to one. The older man’s expression softened.

“Of course,” he held out his hand for the boy to shake. “By the way, my name is Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you spotted the B99 ref! And yes, that was the moment when Crowley decided he was going to marry the angelic bastard.  
Oh and stats ref in the title, sorry if you got it, that means you've suffered too.
> 
> Please note: I do not have lived experience with Autism, I am mostly going off what I've read in class/research (some of which is painfully academic and not anecdotal) so please, please correct me if anything is amiss.


End file.
